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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 657173" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>Cedar, I adopted my son who I first met when he was 22 months, in the orphanage where he had lived since he was 2 weeks. He was taken from his parents' care when his mother threatened to hurt him.</p><p></p><p>While his genetics may be good, there was a mixed picture. While I believe grandparents on both sides were productive and moral his drug using birth parents' both had diagnoses of mental illness and his prenatal exposure and first 22 months were horrendous. There were multiple concerns about him developmentally by the time I met him.</p><p></p><p>That said, I take heart that our bonding and first 15 or so years together were sufficiently strong and stable to prevail.</p><p></p><p>That I am aware of he has done nothing criminal (although as I write this I remember I could have called the police on him more than once) and is averse to those who do, seeking instead to identify with good and productive people.</p><p></p><p>He does not yet see or take responsibility for changing, the reality that his lifestyle, as a vagabond, unproductive, and marginal, throws him in with people just the opposite than those with whom he identifies. Yes, Cedar. I lived it. No internalized mother or caretaker with whom to identify, or model, to guide me to set limits. One day, not today, I will reflect upon the how, I survived and on some level thrived.</p><p>All my life with my mother that I remember, I had a voice that challenged her, whether silent or not.</p><p></p><p>Ten years ago my mother had a roof collapse in her Condo and felt my duty was to assist her. I was on my way to live in Rio de Janeiro. I went.</p><p></p><p>My Mother was angry. Felt abandoned. She was jealous. She maligned me to my sister for leaving secure employment, and for what all, more, I do not care.</p><p></p><p>I called her from Rio.</p><p></p><p>She said this: I don't want you to ever call me again. I don't ever want to talk to you. And hung up on me.</p><p></p><p>I waited a week or so and called again. She hung up on me.</p><p></p><p>I called a week later, same response. I decided to hold her to her word. And did not call again. For years.</p><p></p><p>This was by far not the first nor the longest breach in contact that we had.</p><p></p><p>At some point in the year or two before she died I spoke with her of this.</p><p></p><p>She said it <em><strong>never happened</strong></em>. She denied she would ever do such a thing. She was not angry or defensive. Only that it had never happened and she would never have acted in such a way. So, of course, it had never happened.</p><p></p><p>For much of my life it bothered me that my mother presented a reality of my childhood and her role in it...that was contrary to my memory of it...what I think of as fact.</p><p></p><p>I accept it now. I bear my own memory. And feel sadness for all of us.</p><p></p><p>I have pictures of my mother in old age that are on her dresser, in my home, now. All of them in her "out of the house" guise. My mother too was beautiful and kept her beauty even in death.</p><p></p><p>I have said before that my mother had a persona for "going out." With makeup on and dressed up...like a plant...she oriented towards the light, the sun.</p><p></p><p>Each of these few pictures that I have...has this outside persona.</p><p>Except one.</p><p></p><p>The picture for some reason, though she is in a nightclub, and all dressed up and pretty, captures her tough arrogance--her cruelty. Each time I enter the room where it is I feel a chill. I have thought about removing the photo. But do not.</p><p></p><p>I need to remember how I was killed over and over by this person.</p><p></p><p>I do not deny what happened to me. I could not. It happened for my whole life. And for my whole life while my mother was alive, I remembered and <em><strong>I lived my life protected from her</strong></em>. But, I forgot for a spell, after she died. I never believed that I deserved what was happening to me. But I did believe that if it was happening to me, I must have deserved it.</p><p></p><p>I do not think that it is possible for a baby and child to think otherwise. To believe that a mother, on whom you base your self is so infallibly and unreliably corrupt, is a reality that no young child can tolerate. In my case, I was able to trust myself...who knows how...but I could not trust the world.</p><p></p><p>I have known that <em><strong>I grieved a mother I did not have</strong></em>.</p><p></p><p>Is it possible to separate out the parts of you that you have constructed in spite of your mother, from that which was fashioned in opposition, from that of her that has always been there? For me, I think not or choose not to.</p><p></p><p>There is a choice involved, to love, not hate. To feel gratitude for surviving. To feel gratitude that at the end, there was love and responsibility. In me.</p><p></p><p>I am acknowledging that it was always me.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 657173, member: 18958"] Cedar, I adopted my son who I first met when he was 22 months, in the orphanage where he had lived since he was 2 weeks. He was taken from his parents' care when his mother threatened to hurt him. While his genetics may be good, there was a mixed picture. While I believe grandparents on both sides were productive and moral his drug using birth parents' both had diagnoses of mental illness and his prenatal exposure and first 22 months were horrendous. There were multiple concerns about him developmentally by the time I met him. That said, I take heart that our bonding and first 15 or so years together were sufficiently strong and stable to prevail. That I am aware of he has done nothing criminal (although as I write this I remember I could have called the police on him more than once) and is averse to those who do, seeking instead to identify with good and productive people. He does not yet see or take responsibility for changing, the reality that his lifestyle, as a vagabond, unproductive, and marginal, throws him in with people just the opposite than those with whom he identifies. Yes, Cedar. I lived it. No internalized mother or caretaker with whom to identify, or model, to guide me to set limits. One day, not today, I will reflect upon the how, I survived and on some level thrived. All my life with my mother that I remember, I had a voice that challenged her, whether silent or not. Ten years ago my mother had a roof collapse in her Condo and felt my duty was to assist her. I was on my way to live in Rio de Janeiro. I went. My Mother was angry. Felt abandoned. She was jealous. She maligned me to my sister for leaving secure employment, and for what all, more, I do not care. I called her from Rio. She said this: I don't want you to ever call me again. I don't ever want to talk to you. And hung up on me. I waited a week or so and called again. She hung up on me. I called a week later, same response. I decided to hold her to her word. And did not call again. For years. This was by far not the first nor the longest breach in contact that we had. At some point in the year or two before she died I spoke with her of this. She said it [I][B]never happened[/B][/I]. She denied she would ever do such a thing. She was not angry or defensive. Only that it had never happened and she would never have acted in such a way. So, of course, it had never happened. For much of my life it bothered me that my mother presented a reality of my childhood and her role in it...that was contrary to my memory of it...what I think of as fact. I accept it now. I bear my own memory. And feel sadness for all of us. I have pictures of my mother in old age that are on her dresser, in my home, now. All of them in her "out of the house" guise. My mother too was beautiful and kept her beauty even in death. I have said before that my mother had a persona for "going out." With makeup on and dressed up...like a plant...she oriented towards the light, the sun. Each of these few pictures that I have...has this outside persona. Except one. The picture for some reason, though she is in a nightclub, and all dressed up and pretty, captures her tough arrogance--her cruelty. Each time I enter the room where it is I feel a chill. I have thought about removing the photo. But do not. I need to remember how I was killed over and over by this person. I do not deny what happened to me. I could not. It happened for my whole life. And for my whole life while my mother was alive, I remembered and [I][B]I lived my life protected from her[/B][/I]. But, I forgot for a spell, after she died. I never believed that I deserved what was happening to me. But I did believe that if it was happening to me, I must have deserved it. I do not think that it is possible for a baby and child to think otherwise. To believe that a mother, on whom you base your self is so infallibly and unreliably corrupt, is a reality that no young child can tolerate. In my case, I was able to trust myself...who knows how...but I could not trust the world. I have known that [I][B]I grieved a mother I did not have[/B][/I]. Is it possible to separate out the parts of you that you have constructed in spite of your mother, from that which was fashioned in opposition, from that of her that has always been there? For me, I think not or choose not to. There is a choice involved, to love, not hate. To feel gratitude for surviving. To feel gratitude that at the end, there was love and responsibility. In me. I am acknowledging that it was always me. [/QUOTE]
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